


Pride & Prestige

by onssi



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cute Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Love Triangles, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Pining, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onssi/pseuds/onssi
Summary: Dream was many things: a bastard son, an ambitious prince, a talented tactician - all factors of himself he exhibited with great pride.He did not, however, enjoy the label of being a fighter. For him it was better left in the past, something he did to survive out of necessity. Although, he did enjoy the tension of a good spar, the ignition of raw emotion, the furious pulse of his own heart pounding at his throat.Fighting for sport was behind him.So when a tournament led him to a familiar environment, he witnessed his world tilt on its axis, bewildered as he watched Technoblade take each win from his opponents like it had been mere child’s play.His well-honed technique unrelenting like the ocean tide, both vigorous and agile, rushing currents that devoured impact and redirected it like a razor sharp whip.Dream watched as Techno crashed into his life, turning it on its head with one swift blade to his neck.⁂⁂⁂In which Dream fanboys over Techno's skill for a hot second, realizes how much of a dick he actually is in person, then proceeds to declare a one-sided rivalry to a guy that has better things to do.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/Dave | Technoblade, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 532





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER!! I’M USING THEIR PERSONAS, NOT THE REAL PEOPLE. THIS IS SET IN A FANTASY WORLD WHICH HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THEIR ACTUAL LIVES. Please do not send hate. I already have a fragile self esteem :’)
> 
> First of all, I’m not going to write anything explicit between any of the pairings bc that’s um, ehhh no thanks (but maybe i’ll add some forehead kisses or hand holding LMAO) 
> 
> NOTE THAT:  
> -WARNING, FIRST CH HAS SOME ABUSE AND MURDER IN IT.  
> -sorry guys techno isn't here yet lol  
> -the romance will not come until much, much later.  
> -their personalities will be more inclined to how I see their personas, so Dream is younger than Techno  
> -if you’re curious about the dynamic, dream is a switch, techno is a top, george is a bottom (BUT NO ACTUAL S*X OKAY??)  
> -Techno and Dream are both royals, so it’s sPIcY
> 
> Tyty and enjoy reading my first attempt at a long fic :>

Dream has always been aware of his limits. 

He had been eight years old when he first realized there was a fundamental difference between himself and everyone else around him. Thus, fundamentally, a difference between how the locals treated his type, and the noblemen that looked down on him because of the scarce resources he was forced to deal with.

Born without privilege and opportunity, Dream scoured the streets like a rat for the most of his childhood. Pickpocketing pretentious jewelry from wealthy noblewomen, scamming goods from the occasional tourist, and smooth talking his way out of each sticky situation he found himself in.

If he were one to lack common sense, he wouldn’t have survived as far as he had. For all that it was worth, this was the most important thing his mother drilled into his head as he grew older. This type of thinking shaped who he was. It was a lifestyle, a painful, gruelling, series of thoughts that plotted each predictable outcome that could possibly occur.

People concealed their intentions like a blade at the chopping block, whether it was out of maliciousness or amicability, each and every person had a card they kept at their sleeves. 

For several years, this has been the norm for Dream. Wake up, make some money, sleep. He did what he had to do for his mother and himself to live another day, whatever it took. 

At times, Dream was jealous of the other children he silently watched at a distance. At the other side of town was a park, a place where kids his age would hang around and enjoy their time with parents that cared for them.

By then, Dream knew that children were meant to be loved, adored and coddled for like a fragile object that could be broken with the slightest touch. They were to be showered with affection, grow to be a caring parent for their children, and marry into another to build a loving family of their own. 

So when he asked his mother this innocent question, of why his father rarely came back home, his mother raised a hand against him for the first time in his life. 

With that, It promptly sealed a different future for Dream. 

He never spoke of it again, already aware of where the bottom line was in terms of what triggered his mother. Dream was to become another case among many thousands, an abused child with no remarkable features, a mother who wished she could have done better, without a responsible father in their little family home. 

And so for three years, Dream adapted into this uncommon family dynamic. No one paid him much mind, because as far as anyone was concerned, Dream was just a young child with a naturally mischievous disposition, who only spoke when he was spoken to. 

But on a late September morning, a few things changed for Dream 

His mother sat him down on their ratty couch, and cradled his face on her warm yet work roughened hands. It was a familiar touch, and it never failed to make him press deeper into her hold. Dream loved these intimate moments, as rare as they can be.

_“Honey, do not tell daddy about the friends mommy brings home. Mommy just wants what’s best for us, you’ll understand me better when you’re older.”_

_“This will be our little secret, pinky promise?”_

_“Mommy loves you very much, never forget that. My cute little Dream might be feeling lonely, but I promise things will get better. Give mommy more time, and I promise I'll spend the whole weekend cooking your favorite food as an apology gift.”_

So whenever Dream comes home, he is not met with the sight of a smiling mother and a caring father. Instead, he is hit with that strange pungent smell and the odd moaning sounds that came along with it.

The source always comes from his parent’s bedroom and he is long desensitized from the familiar string of events. 

His mother did not spend time with his father; she preferred spending it in the company of other men or women. Dream could always hear different voices speak to his mother from thin walls, they change every few weeks and never lasted long enough for his father to find out.

Even if Dream was not an extremely perceptive child, he was not ignorant to what his mother was doing. She was lying to his father about the numerous relationships she kept under their household, she was lying to Dream about the wishful promises she could never keep.

It was wrong, but Dream didn’t blame her.

He was watching his parent’s relationship crumbling at the seams and Dream does not find it in himself to do anything about it.

Dream would have left - he can never handle the obnoxious mix of scents because of his sensitive sense of smell - but his nose catches on something sharp, tangy and a little too metallic for it to be considered normal.

Against his better judgement, he investigated.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. It pervaded the air like a heavy weight, sharp and prodding his conscience as if to tell him there was something out of place. 

The second thing he noticed were the broken bottles of alcohol. It wasn’t anything new to the constant messy state of their living room, but the clear liquid seeped into their old carpet, mixed with something innocuously reddish brown in color. The trail led to the opening of their staircase.

The third thing he noticed was his father. He limped down the steps in an unhurried pace, proudly brandishing a crimson knife with a blissed out grin fixed on his blood thirsty face.

His torn clothes were splattered with blood, but Dream could tell it wasn’t his own. 

Dream was slow to react. His eyes were wide and his mouth was slightly parted, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

His father pushed himself off the wall and slowly walked towards Dream, breaking the silence. 

“Did you know about what your mother did behind my back?” 

His voice was quite low for his father, and his slow pronunciation was holding back a simmering anger, if not pure fury; it immediately put Dream on edge. His father shouted and demanded for answers, he has never spoken to him carefully, delicate like a little hidden thread that can snap at a moment’s notice. 

Terrified, Dream froze in place. He did not answer his father. He was left shocked, stopping for a minute or two. He felt his breath hitch, cold sweat gathering on his forehead, dripping down slowly to the brim of his brow. What was he supposed to do? It was late at night, and Dream was aware of the fact that crimes like this ran rampant in a neighborhood such as his.

It was far too late to think about calling for help. 

Dream looked down, anxious and vision going haywire. His father was an adult, bigger, stronger, and faster. Dream was only a poor child, malnourished and severely outmatched. How was he going to leave this house alive? 

For once in his life, Dream was struck with adrenaline. Rushing through his veins, filling him with the need to survive. 

Hands shaking, he spotted a broken bottle of alcohol left under the steps of the staircase. 

In the future, he would not remember what happened too clearly. He would not be able to reconstruct the series of events that put him in front of his father’s murderous intent for the first time. That’s fine, he has always thought to himself. It does not matter, not the way other things do.

His mother is taken from him, Dream mourned. When his father followed, Dream did the opposite. 

After his mother’s murder, Dreams father lost all contact with him and vanished into thin air. Whether he was imprisoned in a jail cell, thrown into a ditch by some debt collectors, died from the fall of a tall cliff, or got attacked by a rabid stray dog, his father was gone and Dream did not mourn for the lack of a father figure in his life. 

As he was passed along from relative to relative like a burden, then came along a passing whim, a budding introspection, a lingering thought - money was a disgusting concept.

If it were not, his mother would still be with him. Dream would not need to move from one home to another, one poor household to the next.

His mother was many things, but she was not as pathetic as her husband. Even if she was the weaker in terms of physical attributes, she never resorted to drowning herself with the enticing allure of alcohol. 

She had sacrificed her dignity to bring money home to a husband that objectified and never truly cared for her, to a son that was as useless as a deadweight. 

If they were blessed with the luxury of monetary assets, she could have spent her precious time with him, promised weekends of cooking his favorite meals, embraced him with hugs that enveloped him with warmth, showered him with the love of a mother’s wholesome care and attention. 

As a child, Dream was starved of the physical affection he needed in order to fulfill his role as a functioning member in society. But with his mother gone, his trust reduced to smithereens, and a seed of disgust for people planted deep into his psyche, Dream has no one to fall back to.

Instead, Dream recoiled from the thought of physical contact. He grew to hate the idea of affection. He loathed it, detested it, abhorred it. 

Instead, he threw himself into the thrill of street fighting. He lost at times or he barely won by the skin of his teeth. But in the end, he learned from his mistakes and he got better. It doesn’t matter how many times it happens - it always, always knocks the wind out of his chest, turns his vision crimson, makes him want to lie on the ground and not get back up again.

Dream got back up anyway. 

However, like all the good things for Dream, it was snipped of the bud before it had the chance to bloom. 

Dream’s problems aside, life finds a way to move on.


	2. The Minotaur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dream fights in an illegal fighting ring and meets with someone he doesn't enjoy talking to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty for those who commented on my prologue, it rlly motivated me to post this ch earlier than it was supposed to!!

#### “Ladies and gentlemen, sponsors and fighters! Welcome to the fight you’ve all been waiting for!” The announcer declared through the mic, exaggerating the movement of his arm charismatically. 

“On our right corner, we have a man undefeated in all his fights, his name has been whispered with _both_ excitement and fear throughout the underground. A fearsome opponent to be reckoned with, one that rips through his enemy’s guard with rabid efficiency! _Nightmare!_ ”

His announcement was followed by a string of cheering and booing from the audience. The booing was surprisingly more dominant than before. And this negative response made Dream think that... maybe pissing people off by making their favourite fighters look like complete pushovers was not that fun for them, nor was having them lose a ton of cash from their badly placed bets. 

Not that Dream cared. He gets the pay check, fights the good fight, and goes on his merry way. 

Dream ignored the dramatic announcer and the jeering audience in favour of the loud sound of his pulsing heartbeat. He was preoccupied with savoring the nervous energy in the air, the possible risk in which he loses and the possible pay-off in which he wins. 

“And on our left corner, we have the bull-headed rookie! A formidable beast that charges straight through the defenses of whoever stands in his way! Triumphant in his last four matches, he is a devastating match up that can make anyone dread for it, the _Minotaur!_ ”

His body was a hulking figure to behold, above average height and brawny as hell. The guy was evidently older than him, had a receding hairline, a thin beard, and a nasty set of yellowing teeth.

A loud cheering reverberated throughout the ring as his opponent walked forward. The Minotaur was grinning widely at the audience, hyping them up with an arrogant flex of his muscles. If his ego wasn’t big enough already, he was absorbing the positive attention that rained down on him like a sponge. 

This guy must be a crowd favorite. Dream already hated his guts. 

“The betting pool is now open for your bids! With these two fighters, it’ll be difficult to predict the outcome of such an exciting brawl! For me, I think they are complete opposites in terms of versatility, yet...” The announcer continued, but his words slowly faded into the background. 

Dream accidentally made eye contact with the man in front of him, regretting it immediately because of how weirdly the other guy smiled at him. Dream narrowed his eyes as he observed his opponent give him an odd look, his opponent’s expression twisting oddly.

“I can’t wait to see your bloodied face on the ground.” Dream heard his opponent say from across the ring, as the announcer prattled away with his usual speech. “Imagine my surprise when I heard my sponsor tell me about the kid who made its name fighting tooth and nail in the underground. I was exhilarated when the opportunity practically landed on my lap, to have myself fighting against a _bitch_ in the dirt ring.”

His words were pointedly insulting, although Dream couldn’t bring himself to care. He’s been called worse.

However, the most disgusting thing about the man was not the insults he spat out, but the way he looked at Dream. It could be because of the animalistic gaze he directed straight at him, the glint of sheer lust of someone ready to rip his opponent apart. 

Dream had plenty of exposure to leers like this against other opponents, but the freaky psychotic glint in his eyes was unadulterated, and it made him shiver slightly in revulsion. He seriously tried to keep his mind off the bad vibes he was getting from the other guy. Most people he fought in the underground didn’t put him on edge, but this guy did.

That was enough to keep his guard up higher than usual. 

His opponent trailed off, nearly whispering his words out, but Dream was able to still hear him say it. “Little boys can be so dumb at times. You’re such an… easy target. An eager one, that’s for sure.” 

The guy’s killing intent was practically out of control, the perspiration that was leaking out of the audience did little to mask it. Its dizzying viscosity crawled around the ring, continuing to creep into his senses like a disgusting hive of wasps, forcing its way into him to cave itself an unwelcome home. 

It was a hateful yet familiar feeling that Dream was unfortunately all too acquainted with. Dream wasn’t new to detesting this to his very core, as the sheer intensity of his abhorrence vastly overwhelmed the natural reaction within himself to give in. He hated how it stuck to him, rooting and lodging itself into Dream’s head like it _owned_ him.

This guy just reeked of eagerness. It was distasteful. 

Dream narrowed his eyes as his fists clenched with tension, forming crescent indents on his roughened hands. He was not going to lower himself to respond to his taunts with blind anger. It was a detrimental emotion that did more harm than good, it could cloud his rationality and make it easier for opponents to steal the upperhand for their own. 

“You know, my sponsor was fairly quick to agree with me when I asked to have a fight with you.” The man said, licking his dry lips. “He got mad when you trashed his last fighter, since you didn’t even let him last a while and put on a good show. You made him lose a lot of money, so he asked me to give you my special treatment.” 

Dream rolled his eyes, “And what would that special treatment entail?” He asked, though he already had a clue based on the bad vibes he was sensing from this guy. 

“Oh, you’ll see. I’ll be so good to you, I never disappoint.”

Dream nodded his head absentmindedly, ignoring the other man at this point. His younger than average age was an open secret, but even then Dream was still in an illegal fighting match, and being an outsider was illegal in itself. 

As an outsider, Dream lived by the walls bordering rocky beaches and coveted shorelines. The Empire of Eislin occupied a large portion of eastern Hypixel, and it’s borders were strong enough to hold off any attacker. It was not hard to pass through the gates of Eislin, it was however, impossible to take up unlawful residence inside. 

Every class of Eislin looked down on those that came from beyond the border. When an outsider lives outside the gates it means they paid no taxes nor received any benefits. They were not part of the Empire’s protection, and when it came down to it they never would be counted as a citizen of Eislin. 

Since Dream had no place in formal fighting arenas, he made himself at home in the illegal ones. 

As a fighter, he wore a green hoodie and a white mask that covered the upper half of his face. Admittedly, it was incredibly tacky in its disguise, but it got the job done. 

As long as Dream’s real identity would never be compromised, he had little risk from being jumped on his way home. And if there was a possibility of being jumped by past competitors, he was confident in putting up a good fight. Dream wasn’t the type to be scared shitless because of the prospect of some underhanded tactics. 

“Now, this fight will only end until one person is either unconscious or heavily incapacitated. Forfeiting the match is not allowed, as requested and agreed by both of their sponsors.” The announcer clarified, bringing out a little zeal as he did. He waited a couple more seconds for the crowd to finish their bets, the air in the ring heightening with anticipation. 

The announcer clapped his hands together, bringing attention to himself. Dream ignored the noise around him and closed his eyes, taking a slow and deep breath. This should be a piece of cake. He was confident enough to take this as an easy dub. 

“The bets are in! Are both fighters ready?!” The announcer shouted out dramatically while walking towards a small lift that took him to the stands. 

Dream and his opponent nodded, the Minotaur’s terrifying grin intensifying. 

“ _BEGIN_!”

Right as the last syllable exited the announcer’s mouth, the Minotaur leaped towards Dream with surprisingly fast speed, cocking back his fist to unleash brute force. For a moment, Dream was a little impressed. 

Dream expected it to be a quick fight since it was fairly easy to underestimate this arrogant opponent before him. He assumed that since this guy was a typical newbie, an easy fight would have soon followed if the Minotaur would be running on a high because of the consecutive wins he obtained from his new career.

Looks like he wasn’t all bark and no bite. 

His fist exploded at Dream like a loaded cannon, the air around it fluctuating and rippling around the fist from its sheer force. Dream quickly used his superior footwork and blurred to the side, letting the fierce attack sail past him before he clenched his own hand and smashed it against the Minotaur’s face.

Dream hid his surprise when the Minotaur met the punch head on, beady eyes looking at him straight in the face, as if to mock the hit that did not faze him in the slightest. His opponent taunted him, shifting stances and circling around him like a predator eyeing a prey, smelling of a musky rawness with power synonymous to an arrogant showsman. 

Abruptly, his fist cocked back like a shotgun and sent it flying straight at Dream’s mask, forcing him to cross his arms passively to block the barrage of attacks. The sudden assault that rained down on him had to be endured firmly, so that it would not be able to break through his defenses.

The sheer impact was akin to a freight train and he was pressured to skid backwards, his arms shaking because of the sheer amount of strength behind that immovable force. There wasn’t any lasting damage to impair Dream in the fight, but it would surely bruise over later.

The Minotaur lunged for him, Dream swiveled away but his opponent abruptly made a feint, catching him off guard and knocking him out of breath. He used his heavier weight to press down on Dream’s smaller body, forcing him to lay against a wooden wall of the lowered ring. His arm comes straight down to choke Dream’s throat, interrupting his focus and dulling his ability to think ahead of this sticky situation.

Dream glared as the man straddling him got drunk with the thrill of having the upperhand over him in the fight, making him go over the edge, sweat beginning to pour over his head, blood oozing out of his belligerent smirk and distorting the brim of his teeth a nasty discoloration between an ugly red and an unsightly yellow.

“Nightmare is on his defense! He took more than one hit, and now he looks like he’s in trouble!” The announcer blared out with the use of his mic, inciting a stream of cheering from the crowd. 

“You’re from outside the borders, aren’t you?” His revoltingly wet breath brushed on Dream’s ear, making him flinch from disgust. He was nauseatingly close, and it was hard for him to stomach it. Dream grew tenser as his opponent applied more pressure to the chokehold, the other man’s face coming closer to his neck. ”I’ve dealt with a lot of deadweights like you, they’re my favorite type to play with-“ Dream spat on his face, cutting him off. The Minotaur froze for a few seconds, then like a volcano that was about to erupt, pulsing veins appeared on his forehead out of anger.

Using this momentary pause to his advantage, Dream’s expression darkened, swiftly grabbing a fistful of his opponent's hair to catch him off guard. As soon as he forced upon the firm grip, Dream gave the other man a painful head butt and cracked into his forehead without hesitation, shocking the Minotaur enough to loosen his hold on his sides.

Dream wasn’t below fighting with underhanded tactics, how else was he supposed to deal with fighters that cheated their way into the top? Everything was fair game. 

With an assertive shove, Dream got back on his feet and pulled away. He spat out the revolting taste of the man’s sweat, ruining his mood entirely and igniting the hatred deeply lodged inside the very crevices of his head.

They were all _disgusting_.

But now wasn’t the time to go on about his daddy issues. Instead of mulling over useless thoughts, Dream blatantly shoved it aside and focused on more pressing matters. Dream let go of what was holding him back, allowing himself to sink into his familiar pattern of fighting. 

“The Minotaur could have downed him right then and there! What a rookie mistake, he should’ve knocked him out sooner!” A couple of loud jeers followed the announcer’s statement, fueling the Minotaur to race towards him in anger.

His opponent clasped his hands together, raising it high above his head to deliver a fatal downward blow onto Dream’s back. Dream responded in tandem and shot to the side, angeling his heel away and counter attacking with a pivot jab to the Minotaur’s vulnerable sinus. 

Dream hit his mark, breaking his tall nose with a satisfying _crack._ Ducking underneath another punch, Dream rushed forwards and extended his front fist, landing a successful power jab without his opponent expecting the quick follow up.

The Minotaur winced, blocking the weakened area using his arms to protect himself from any more of Dream’s persistent hits.

Dream narrowed his eyes, launching another barrage of attacks on the Minotaur’s torso. After a couple seconds, the Minotaur sluggishly recovered before punching Dream with a bombardment of his own. 

“Would you look at that! They’re exchanging blow for blow! The both of them are looking worse for wear, but it doesn’t seem like our fighters are gonna give up anytime soon!”

Dream exhaled, breaking his opponent’s momentum by countering with an uppercut, followed by a rapid swing to the jaw.

_Parry the jab. Block the left hook. Deflect the bodyshot. Your best defence is offence. Use his own strength against him. Take it as your own, wield it against your opponent._

_Absolute focus, the beating of your heart, the slowing of your breath._

_Restrict his cross. Keep your distance. Bide for time. Watch for an opening._

Dream can see it now, read him like a book even through the cacophony of disruptive noises all around him. Be it an opponent on a dirt ring in the underground or some irritating bastard at the bar, in the end his opponents will always be incapable of keeping up with him.

Dream slid his body forward, closing distance and pivoting the ball of his foot. He locked his knee and brought his leg up in a wide arc, taking advantage of his adversary’s blind spot, landing an effective axe kick behind the Minotaur’s shoulder blade and going straight over it. 

The Minotaur stumbled forwards, lugging his taller stature uncontrollably because of the sudden blow to the neck. Dream rushed towards him, giving him a quick jab to the jaw and to take advantage of the opportunity, driving the pain in further. 

The Minotaur tried to swing at Dream again, but this time it was both sluggish and sloppy, easy for Dream to figure out where he was going to hit next.

Dream reclaimed a firm posture and strengthened the ground of the tips of his toes. He moved himself closer to pull the Minotaur tight against his body, sharply twisting against his center of gravity to effectively set up the break to his opponent’s sense of balance. 

Dream locked his sole onto the mat and turned the tables by lunging in to sweep his opponent’s right leg out from under him, taking advantage of the Minotaur’s poor state, swinging down firmly in one large motion. 

With a slight heave, Dream flipped the Minotaur over his shoulder and slammed the older man onto his back. His opponent let out a groan as the tough mat hit him, too overwhelmed with the sudden escalation of events as he lay there slack. 

It was simple judo, but highly effective against an opponent that relied on brute force instead of actual skill. 

In a flash, Dream pinned his fallen form and restricted his air flow with a choke hold, taking him down a peg or two out of smug satisfaction. He drove his elbow firmer downwards, preventing the Minotaur from getting up and having a chance to recover. 

“Hey, Minotaur,” Dream said casually, patting his cheek in a condescending manner. “That was a disappointing performance. Points for improvement, don’t brag about things you can’t back up.” 

The Minotaur only grunted in response as Dream watched his consciousness slowly fade out of the older man’s eyes. After Dream was sure of his knock out, he immediately released him from the choke hold.

The announcer moved fast and shouted out Dream’s win, confirming the loss of the Minotaur and screaming out Dream’s ring name. “What an amazing comeback! Despite being held down and pressured into passive defense from the beginning, _Nightmare_ remains **_undefeated_**!” 

There was an eruption of noise, mostly in displeasure as the audience members started bellowing curses and insults towards Dream. It seemed like they betted against him in favour of the rookie he fought against, but tough luck because Dream managed to take the win anyway. 

Dream brushed the sweat of his brow with a heavily wrapped hand, leaving the ring to exit the arena down the steps. The sound of booing and death threats followed him as he left, but Dream was used to ignoring their empty promises. He entered the corridor and tossed the mask that hid his identity away, removing his green hoodie and ruffling his dirty blonde hair to shake away beads of sweat.

The second he stepped into the public locker room, he slumped onto the closest wooden bench. There was no one but him and Dream couldn’t be anymore thankful. Dream grabbed his bottled water from the table beside him, drinking it all in big gulps. 

As the adrenaline slipped away, everything started screaming for his attention again. His overdue rent, his future prospects in this illegal fighting business, the bruising ache in his muscles, and his unpredictable survival rate among other things. Each issue pulled him in every other direction, straining his time and testing his patience.

He can’t keep doing this. As much as he loved the thrill adrenaline gave him, he wasn’t made for fighting non-stop.

Dream was overexerting himself and it can be seen by how sluggish he was at the start of his most recent fight. Underground tournaments were easy money, but it was both illegal and stressful to keep up. It wasn’t a reliable source of income and maintaining this winning streak was starting to become difficult for him.

If Dream was being honest with himself, he was exhausted. But being tired doesn’t pay the bills, so he had no other choice but to pull through. Dream huffed and gathered himself, walking towards his locker to get a dry towel. He was going to have a quick shower, then immediately head back home for some much deserved sleep.

Got problems? Sleep it all away.

_Clap. Clap. Clap._

Just when things can’t get any worse. Dream sighed, bringing his attention to the uninvited man in front of him. 

Leaning quite confidently against a wall was the source of where the clapping was coming from. It was a man who looked out of place. He was taller than Dream, with a sturdier stature and a stronger build, both exuding languid confidence and an innate arrogance. He was wearing a pricy looking blazer under a black top coat, eyes hidden beneath dimly matted shades, and slicked back hair styled around intimidating goat-like horns.

“You did well, kid.” Schlatt commended, pushing down his shades to look Dream directly in the eyes. “It’s great to see that you haven’t lost your spark just yet.”

Dream scoffed, rolling his eyes. Schlatt, his sponsor, already told him about what was going to happen with this fight. He set up matches for him, and he fought the people to earn a portion of the winnings. 

That was the extent of their partnership.

Yet here he was, acting like they were the best of buddies when they were nowhere near that type of familiarity. Dream had made it clear to Schlatt, time and time again, that everything that was exchanged between the two of them was strictly business. 

Dream wasn’t an idiot. They used each other as tools, so nothing good is going to come from Schatt if he decided to come down the pit to talk to Dream himself. 

“Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for me.” Dream replied, sharp and cutting.

And Schlatt simply smiled back. 

“How unfortunate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream: ew ur gross  
> minotaur: no u  
> dream: *uno reverse card* take tHE L 
> 
> schlatt: wow let's talk about how well u di-  
> dream: no  
> schlatt: k. anyway, u wanna hear smth cool i found out about-  
> dream: n o .  
> schlatt: liStEN HERE YOU LITTLE-
> 
> wow guys ooo as thanks i decided to do an EXCLUSIVE reveal of my outline wowowow!! if u couldn't tell, edgy teenager! dream is my aesthetic LMAO. dw there'll be a change in his personality in the time skip AHAHAHA 
> 
> if yall pulled thru and enjoyed the ch, pls kudos and comment whatever!! i LOVE reading ur thoughts and stuff, it's rlly cool and makes my daaaaaay!!!


	3. Chrysanthemums and Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade and Wilbur have an interesting conversation, then have a little stop at an underground fighting ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOP SURPRISE IT'S TECHNO'S 1ST POV IN THE STORY!!! yall didnt see that coming ehehe :>>

The Eislinian Children’s Orphanage Fundraiser was a little too lively for Technoblade's taste. It was his arrival at the central’s newest hotspot, a rooftop terrace restaurant called The Chrysanthemum, that soured his mood completely.

Technoblade wasn’t the biggest fan of these types of get togethers. Since he was never much of a social butterfly, every party would have inevitably ended with him standing alone in a corner or sat alone at a table, watching a roomful of people laugh and dance and enjoy themselves in a way he hadn’t since who knew when.

Technoblade would rather have the public eye on his older siblings, with him back home and tending to his plants in his own personal greenhouse. If only he wasn’t dragged onto the other side of the continent, but his mother couldn’t have the black sheep giving political ammunition to her competitors. 

With the shaky peace treaty between the Kain and Eislin Empire, drastic reparation was needed.

But even so, Technoblade didn’t like parties at all.

Despite all the exulting from his Mother about snagging the perfect venue for this event, Technoblade found the bucolic decor abhorrent with its pink (though she would argue mauve), red, and flowery white decorations, making one of the latest, most expensive restaurants in the newly rebuilt community overbearing, off-putting and tacky. 

Gauzy pink tulle fabric entwined with pastel yellow silk coils, thrown over beams and wrapped around pillars which spread along the terrace bannister. Nauseating hot-pink tablecloths rested upon every table, obnoxiously cursive writing and frilly lace-edged menus were carefully distributed in the centre of each tabletop. 

It’s as if a horrid little gremlin with an affinity of pink exploded itself all over the venue’s intended French Farmhouse theme—fuschia or maybe mauve—covered rustic solid oak, moss, and twigs, with an overabundance of hideous exotic flowers which went rampant from all the venue’s available nooks and crannies.

Technoblade felt smothered.

To top off the horrific decor, there were at least two or three young orphans being paraded around, enticing those who were on the wrong side of the war to dig deep into their bank accounts, and not for the good of their heart but for a mention in next week’s issue from the daily newspaper. 

The various acts of posturing from this community disgusted him, but it did not surprise him. Just as much as the younger noblemen hanging over their parents to have hospitals and orphanages named after them, to ultimately leave behind the legacies they would develop to their stead, in terms of business monopolies that would last more lifetimes than it actually should.

Nepotism has always been alive and well.

Technoblade rested his face on his hands, posture slouching into the lush dining chair. He fiddled with the table napkin at his side, then laid his fingers down in rhythm. 

_ Tap. Tap. Tap.  _

His mother raised a wine glass, bringing attention to herself. She headed up to the pedestal and an impromptu speech filled the ballroom, embroiled in the emotions evoked by the Fundraiser’s noble cause. 

The noblewoman from behind him smacked her lips loudly and took a sip from her wine glass. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, since this tick wouldn’t have bothered him as much as it should have. 

His mother said her final words, and a chorus of clapping soon followed. He joined in without a pause. 

_ Tap. Tap. Tap. _

A gust of cold wind ruffled his hair. 

A selfish part of himself garnered an inkling of a thought inside his heart. Neither did he act on it or vocalize it in front of his family, it was simply his own. A precious little secret he would ponder over when the sun dipped into the horizon and the moon rose to the stars. 

He could travel the vast lands before him, walk under the night sky with a knapsack on his back. Leave all his responsibilities behind, live a respectful life without worry. 

_ Tap. Tap. Tap. _

He had rolled around the idea of dropping off the face of earth to become a potato farmer in the outskirts of some rural province. He was still immature, between the age of being too young to be an adult yet old enough to not be considered a child, but he felt like he had his priorities straight.

His older brothers would always make fun of him for having gardening as a hobby, but combat and politics never sounded appealing to him. 

But that's all he did. Rolled it round and round till the idea was squashed.

_ Tap.  _

_ Tap. _

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by a nudge to the side. Technoblade tilted his head slightly to the left to catch Wilbur in his peripheral vision.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Techno?” he asked, a look of boredom on his face in a way that would give Techno a run for its money.

Technoblade’s 19-year-old acquaintance, simply put, is the most put together man Techno has ever had the pleasure of knowing. He’s taller than Techno, with lithely muscled shoulders and skin that reminded him of the unblemished marble ring his mother always wore on her index finger. His delicate hands which were slightly roughed from the strumming of a guitar, aristocratic in its figure yet reflecting his affinity for musical instruments. 

Techno was only a tad bit envious. He was tall and lanky, all awkward limbs that didn’t know where to go. He was in the middle of that weird growth phase and it wasn’t something he enjoyed. 

With those plump lips, high cheekbones, and perfectly sharp, chiselled jawline, who wouldn’t be jealous of Wilbur?

Technoblade tilted his head back, once more taking in the wide landscape of buildings before closing his eyes briefly on a sigh. “Do I look like I’m enjoying this shit party?” he asked before fixing his gaze on the older boy.

Wilbur nodded sympathetically and handed Technoblade a glass of whisky. It’s then that he noticed the half-full bottle tucked under his arm. He wondered what Wilbur did to lift a bottle from one of the servants. 

But it was none of his business, so he waited until Wilbur had taken his first sip to sip his own. One can never fully trust a Soot. After all, their family motto was  _ bis vincit qui se vincit _ .

_ He conquers twice who conquers himself. _

They’re all a bunch of dumb, narcissistic pricks.

“It’ll do you some good to smile so your poor mother can be happy. She worked hard on this amazing event,” Wilbur said in a levelled voice, his hand now resting on Techno’s elbow. He resisted the urge to pull away. “You can at least pretend to care about orphans.” 

Techno scoffed. “Believe me, I may not show it on my face but I do care about those orphans. I’d be a monster if I hated those poor children.” Yet again, his attention was brought to those broke kids that ran around the venue like headless chickens. They stood out like a sore thumb, raggedy clothes with a complementing bird's nest for hair. 

Someone clearly wanted these orphans to highlight their lack of monetary assets. But with the surrounding noblewomen that rained down cooed pity and baseless praises on the pair of orphans, it looked like it was working as expected. 

If that was the case, Techno wasn’t one to bother. 

Wilbur gave him a disbelieving look. “Somehow, I feel like you’re speaking out of your arse.” 

Technoblade shrugged, not in the mood to contradict with him. He took the bottle of whisky from him to refill both of their glasses before shoving the bottle back into Wilbur’s arms.

Wilbur accepted the unruly shove and drank the liquid with a small frown. “I hate whisky.”

“And yet you still drink it, but that’s just you, isn’t it?” Technoblade quipped, his lips twitching up in a humorless smile as he rummaged through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. 

“Would you like one?”

Wilbur graciously pulled out a cigarette from the presented cigarette pack and kept it between his teeth. As Techno offered his lighter, Wilbur locked eyes with him and didn't let go. He slowly cupped his own around Techno’s roughly ridden hands, pressed the other's thumb and then brought it closer to the cigarette trapped between his pink lips.

Then just as quickly, Wilbur let go and gathered the attention he had given. When he looked from the corner of his eyes, the brown-eyed teenager was without tension. Truthfully, he looked as if none of that even happened.

Technoblade didn’t know what to think of it. 

Wilbur was as self contradictory as they came, but he’s playing this unspoken game, too. It was shallow and held no actual meaning to him, each touch superficial with no truth behind it. It would be best if it was just ignored. 

Techno felt a frisson of irritation and tamped it down. 

He loosened his tie and then lit his own cigarette with the tip of his lighter, once more taking a long and plumous drag to pass the time, before curling his lips into a self deprecating smirk.

The boredom was back. A sludge in his mind that he was wading through, limbless and hopeless. The thought of leaving this place in a few months provided little solace. Giving up his position as the potential heir to the throne would always be seen through a monochrome haze after a while.

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite.” Wilbur mumbled his thoughts out loud, the insult too soft spoken to hold any weight.

“It takes one to know one.” 

Their conversation must've dried up since a moment of silence passed between them, looking out over the empire that was once at war with his own, dimly lit buildings reflecting the stars above him. Techno’s been up there for what felt like hours now.

It had been sunset when he first walked in the entryway and brought himself up onto the balcony floor. It was now pitch black with the silent clicks of crickets slinking through the air, the inert chorus of soft conversation going through one ear and out the other, and the merry celebrations happening around the streets below them.

It was the 5th year peace treaty between the two empires, and Eislinians would jump at the chance to get drunk, skip work, and make something a holiday.

If Techno was to take a guess, he’d say it would be roughly eight o’clock. Too early to drown yourself with alcohol, but who was he to judge. He had an unhealthy nicotine addiction and that was no better than destroying your liver with a presumptuous number of drinks. 

“Have you heard of that nasty rumour?” The inquisitive words rolled right off Wilbur, greasy beads of letters leaving no trace. 

Technoblade wasn't interested in humouring him tonight, so he merely raised a questioning brow and stared right into Wilbur’s brown eyes. Techno took his time before answering Wilbur, taking a slow drag as he gazed at the lighter he held between his pale fingers, gradually releasing its trail of smoke.

“You’d have to be more specific than that,” Techno said dully, “I never thought you’d succumb to high society’s petty gossip.”

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief, as if to say how could someone survive in such a political landscape without feeding off of the gossip mill?

“The Eislinian Emperor.” Wilbur dropped his tone, whispering the last of his sentence. “Rumor has it that he’s contracted Dragon’s Breath.”

Techno hummed in interest, taking in the new spark of intel. 

The revered ruler of the Eislin Empire was one to hoard gold like an avaricious dragon. He was smart, but this intelligence of his came with a price. Their economy may have been flourishing, but only because it was under the control of an overbearing fist. Growing tensions and political upheaval were far from what he expected, since enemies came out from the woodworks and struck the foundation of his rule from the shadows and cracks of their brittle loyalty. 

Technoblade may be a foreigner, but he knew that their rebellion was never extinguished. It was only quelled for the time being, after all, the living proof of its shining symbol was right before him.

L’manburg was headstrong with its beliefs, but Wilbur knew how to bide for his time. 

Techno had to respect him for his ability. L’manburg was only a state within Eislin’s walls, yet that didn’t stop him and his family from beginning again from the ground up, investing in multiple sources of businesses and amassing a sizable fortune for themselves.

Wilbur played an integral part in collecting favors from backdoor connections of various strong players in several governments, and a few years later he’s still going strong as a big competitor not to be dealt with. From the day he started his long journey, he had shed his name as the simple son of the Emperor’s younger brother and became his own man.

If it were not for the Emperor’s boundless pride, his miserliness and cunning touch in business could have avoided him from the possibility of such a dastardly end. He had made the mistake of angering his citizens, and he was left to deal with the consequences of his own actions. To bare weakness in front of the pack of hungry wolves, there would only be one way to go for him. 

It was the calm before the storm, and all eyes were on Eislin for their next daring move. 

“If not from me, your brothers must’ve told you at least. It’s practically an open secret amongst those in court.” 

Wilbur’s offhand comment about Techno and his siblings lingered in the air. There’s no love lost between him and his family. But insecurity gripped him like always, and he found himself saying, “Who would’ve guessed? Of course they haven’t, but I suppose you’re more inclined to their charm than my own, am I correct?” 

Wilbur looked taken aback for a moment, snorted and then tossed back his own blunt observation. 

“My apologies Techno, but I find it rather hilarious.” Wilbur shot Techno a sharp smile, which told him that he was not being apologetic at all. “The Emperor’s life is on the brink of collapse, yet you latch onto that small part about your brothers. How deeply rooted is your hatred?”

Technoblade flicked the ashes to the side and took another drag. His gaze involuntarily drifted away from Wilbur, choosing not to look at his face out of discomfort. 

“Honestly, I would think you’d have more tact than that, Wilbur,” Techno said absentmindedly, his eyes roving over the delicate pastries laid out on the table in front of them. He plucked up a tiny chocolate éclair, focusing on its faint dash of sweetness to ignore the strong bitterness Wilbur’s statement left him.

“Don’t fret it, my dearest friend, I mean no offense. If not for our acquaintanceship you would have been kept in the dark,” Wilbur drawled, keeping the bottle of whiskey away and leaning back onto the lush dining chair to cross his legs. “At the end of the day, I have been nothing but truthful to you.”

Wilbur placed his now-empty tumbler on the arm of the chair to use as an ashtray and tapped his cigarette against the mouth of it. 

“I trust that what we share would only be kept between the two of us?” Wilbur smirked, tilting his head to the side. “And if the thought counts, you’ve always been the better sibling among those barbarians you call the royal Kainian family.” 

Technoblade’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Wilbur. You’re walking on thin ice.”

Wilbur laughed, the sound cruel and sharp as he threw his head back. “What can I say? You have the impeccable ability to loosen my tongue, even when I did not have the intentions to do so.”

Techno’s lip further curled into a twisted grimace. “I was mentally preparing myself for a pounding headache when my mother announced that I am to show my face at this idiotic fundraiser, and you’ve been  _ kind  _ enough to prove my point.”

Wilbur drew along his time as he took a long drag out of his cigarette, watching as the smoke slowly emerged in thick tendrils that curled out in front of his face.

Technoblade allowed the awkward silence to fester. He openly observed what he could, quietly questioning the dubious intentions of the nobleman in front of him. He had his suspicions, but he didn’t want to jump into the wrong conclusions. 

Techno was apprehensive. But why else would Wilbur try to get on his good side? He wasn’t a simpleton. If he were to sympathise with him, acting like the only ally by his side, his tactics would have only worked on the morons in the worst of positions. 

Wilbur finally broke the silence with a soft question. “Are you calling me an idiot?”

“Quite frankly, yes.” Technoblade said, blunt and direct. “You know that while there are still heirs eligible to the throne, who are clearly more capable than I ever could be, allying yourself with the black sheep of the royal family would not matter in the long run, correct?”

“For now.”

“Wilbur. Don’t even try it.”

“It has been done before. Case in point, L’ma-”

“Rid yourself of those treasonous thoughts. The walls have ears, might I remind you.” Technoblade hissed, shutting Wilbur up before he was to dig himself a deeper hole. “I have said it before and I will say it again. I have no plans of doing so.” 

Wilbur clicked his tongue in distaste, a tinge of irritation finally breaking through his polite mask.  “You’re a difficult man to please, Technoblade.” 

"This stubbornness of yours has led to your inability to rise above your competition. My intuition hinted that a new path would be presented to me that blessed day L’manburg chose to shoot its shot. And with that said, things did change when I treaded it. Only it had to be walked without reservations. So I took that risk."

There’s a look of seriousness on Wilbur’s face, as he set down the half-full bottle of whisky on top of a glass table, overlooking the rooftop terrace filled with viridian and exotic plants. 

“And that’s the difference between me and you. As someone who came from a similar background, take my advice and use my position to your advantage.”

Technoblade didn’t know what to think about that—Wilbur talked so much shit that he’s unable to follow what’s true and what’s false from his mouth—so instead he plucked Wilbur’s half-empty glass from his well-manicured hand and downed the rest of his liquor. “One man’s misfortune is another man’s opportunity. What are you to gain from this, Wilbur?” Technoblade pondered out loud, taking note of the growing tension on his companion’s shoulders. “Another fruitless attempt at your state’s freedom? To think that the truce wasn’t enough, your boundless ambition will be the cause of your own destruction.” 

Technoblade locked eyes with the irritated man in front of him, his feigned calm crumbling at the seams. Techno noted the drumming of his fingers, an unrestrained tick the man has yet to dispel from the years they have known each other. 

He knew he was getting somewhere with Wilbur. His personality was rational, not desperate. Only a madman would involve two countries constantly at the brink of war with each other. If either side were to hear of this brewing rebellion of allegiance between two enemies, God knows what would happen to polite society itself. 

“Your  _ allies  _ do not have the best intentions in mind, once the Eislinian Emperor regains his strength they will drop you like it was none of their business. Luck has always been by your side, but pushing it to this extent will tip the future against your favor.”

Wilbur closed his eyes, taking a heavy sigh.

“You’ve grown irrational, Wilbur.” Technoblade said slowly, taking a sip of his drink. “Rather than scheming boring plots about whatever lunatic ideologies you’ve been spewing, make better use of your time. Read a book or something.”

Wilbur only laughed in response. Probably because he heard the hollow in Techno's voice and knew the younger man understood his reasons.

How could he not when he himself felt the same?

“Perhaps I should take a page from your book and spend the rest of my days in some isolated greenhouse. But what you said was not too far from the truth. Nowadays, I can hardly stomach the company of anyone.” Wilbur glanced over, nothing coming to the forefront of his mind. Until a simple idea struck him, then he smiled at the thought. “Though, if you’re terribly bored, I may be amenable to a more stimulating way to spend our time together right now.”

Technoblade rolled his eyes and killed his cigarette by dropping and crushing it under the heel of his Oxford shoes. 

“What do you have in mind?” 

  
  


* * *

"When I said go read a book, this wasn't what I had in mind."

“Quit complaining, you’ll make us stand out.” Wilbur berated, bringing his oversized hooded robe closer to himself. 

Technoblade was less than impressed. This was supposedly his fool-proof disguise for them, a disgusting cloth that most probably have been left out in the rain for who knows how long. There was a questionable smell that wafted from it, and it took Techno’s entire energy not to blow their cover and throw the gross excuse of an article of clothing at the offender in question.

“What a waste of my time. Of all places, why on earth would you choose an underground fighting ring? A place for the violent entertainment of the masses, no less.” Technoblade asked, genuinely confused. “I have many questions for you, Wilbur, but they’d be less than appropriate to say right now.”

Wilbur told him that this was his surprise. A venue that offered a sad excuse of an arena, enclosed walls broken in by moss and vines, wooden benches that had definitely seen better days without any care put on it in sight. Technoblade was not only concerned, but a little curious on how Wilbur found this underground event in the first place. 

“If I told you how I came across this lovely event, you wouldn’t believe me.” Wilbur said, deflecting the unspoken question. 

“Anyway, that’s besides the point. We’re here to watch a favorite of mine have his first fight after his month long break. The line up against him was impressive, so I wanted to show you a more,” Wilbur paused, choosing his wording carefully, ”intimate look into the pastimes of the Eislinian people.”

“Flowery language isn’t going to take you anywhere.” Technoblade said, nowhere near convinced. “Of all the tourist attractions you could have shared with me, you decided on the place with the gambling addicts and the blood hungry degenerates?”

Technoblade narrowed his eyes. “What an odd choice for a local, Mr. Tourist Guide.”

“Does everything I do make you suspicious of my intentions?” Wilbur asked, a little amused. 

“Quit asking questions you already know the answers to, Wilbur.” 

Wilbur sighed. “No need to worry, there are no ulterior motives. I’m simply here to watch a personal favorite of mine, and hopefully convince you that watching people fight isn’t such a boring endeavor.”

Technoblade simply raised a doubting brow in response. “And you’re not going to tell me who I should look forward to?”

“I have a penchant for surprises, Techno. I’ll tell you after the show.”   
  


“Of course you’ll save it after the entire thing is over.”

With that said, each round held a predictable win, and every observation Techno took had a 100% chance of being correct. There was no flavour, no excitement, and nothing new to challenge himself in. 

Although if he were being honest, Technoblade would prefer this dumpster fire over that fundraiser that was only held to exploit the hell out of those dumb orphans. He held no feelings over violence, it was neutral grounds for him, an act that he had no trouble watching or enacting.

He was not fond of doing it himself, but that’s on ordering other people around to do it for him. It would be an entirely different situation if something were to force his hand. After all, he had to choose the lesser of the two evils. 

Technoblade did not have any expectations throughout the first half. He came in here without standards, expecting brutish and lackluster tactics that were only there to feed the blood hungry audience that demanded for it. He wouldn’t say that he was great at person versus person combat, but the first impressions of this Elysian underground fighting ring did not inspire the most faith in him. 

He was used to watching combat through the spectacles of a nobleman, it was an art form, a tool to win a war, and a talent that was useful in the right situation. Weapons that spanned from spears to swords and to sabres. 

There was no hand-to-hand combat, nothing that was in the range of hits that were filled with only the strength of aggression, fights that could be decided by how much muscle mass the opponent had, without any thought applied to it. 

That was his observation, until a round came in which Technoblade had never seen the likes of it before.

Nightmare was an intriguing competitor. 

Mostly, Nightmare was just unhoned. The groundwork was there, but his technique was clumsy. It was an evidence of self-teaching, of hours spent probably observing and trying to recreate. Techno knew all too well about those. He had, after all, grown up with someone quite similar. 

His lean body had become toned, still wiry and lithe, but hardened from diligence. However, where the other had learned through repetition by brawling over countless years and being bull-headed and unyielding, Nightmare was still fumbling around, unpredictable and fresh yet nonetheless unrelenting.

The few times Technoblade thought it would be over for him had instead found himself blinking bewilderedly at the way Nightmare had evaded the Minotaur, igniting like a rekindled spark, but forceful and deadly, like scorching flames in places the Minotaur had not thought to keep guarded against Nightmare.

Gone in a handful of minutes was Nightmare and his sloppy stance. In its place was his quick fists and streamlined form. He might not have been the strongest opponent, but he was agile, quick-witted, and tactile. 

The more he watched, the longer the fight dragged on, the more he realized how inconsequential the Minotaur was in comparison to Nightmare. He had slipped by his fists, tall, lean body moving like a dance of bright flames. It consumed his opponent, a blazing inferno that subdued and reduced the Minotaur into nothing but burning ash. 

Technoblade was in awe. 

With a slight heave, Nightmare flipped the Minotaur over his shoulder and slammed the other man onto his back.

In a flash, Nightmare pinned his fallen form and restricted his air flow with a choke hold, driving his elbow firmer downwards, preventing the Minotaur from getting up and having a chance to recover. 

After a few more tense seconds, the Minotaur’s shoulders slumped as his consciousness left him. 

The announcer moved fast and shouted out the win, confirming the loss of the Minotaur.  “What an amazing comeback! Despite being held down and pressured into passive defense from the beginning,  _ Nightmare _ remains  **_undefeated_ ** !” 

A hush fell across the audience. 

Technoblade was speechless. 

Then, a cacophony of noise. Displeasure, curses and disbelief. They were thrown back and forth, most bets dropped and lost because of the insane clutch he just witnessed right before him. 

Techno shook his head and fell back against the back of his bench. To think that he, previously unbothered with what was happening before him, now at the edge of his seat, felt more alive than he felt in years was a pleasant surprise. With what he had seen, his interest in learning the arts of combat has been revitalized, a burst that overwhelmed his old thoughts of it being just a chore. 

He slanted a look at the fighter who won against the odds, taking in his features.

The spotlight was on the winning fighter and this time his hood was down. Underneath laid the shadow of his white, smiling mask. Nightmare had no visible injury, save for a growing bruise on the side of his sleek jaw. It might have almost been a biting kiss the way it hugged the curve of his cheek. 

Under the bright lights, Technoblade could still make out the faintest smattering of freckles, sparse but there. Nightmare’s dirty blonde bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat, messy from the strenuous spar it has been through.

“Do you still regret coming to this gathering of gambling addicts and blood hungry degenerates?” Wilbur said, smug enough to look like he already knew the answer to that question. 

Technoblade rolled his eyes. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. I spent the majority of my time wanting to off myself right then and there.” 

Nightmare was a diamond in the rough. Technoblade had fully expected the entire lineup to be sloppy and rambunctious, too busy bragging about their skills and pandering to the audience to really amount to anything. He was only partially correct. 

There was a fighter who stood out amongst the untalented lot, and that interested Techno more than anything. 

“But overall, I’ve learned more than what I would have expected from this scuffed visit. If this burst of inspiration sticks with me, I might consider honing my techniques in combat.”

Wilbur hummed in interest. “How good are you with a sword? To be honest, I’ve never seen you pick up a weapon for as long as I’ve known you.”

“I usually skip lessons, so I’ve never been the best at it. Although, if I’m motivated enough I could pose a challenge to my brothers.” 

Technoblade learned as fast as he wanted it to. He didn’t always get things on the first go, but he studied hard when he was motivated enough. He committed lessons to heart, ingraining it into his body until his limbs seemed to just move with the forethought.

Where Techno was weak, he was silent, almost like a cover, a large cloak falling over him to hide his flaws. Where he was strong, he was confident, quick and sure, not an ounce of hesitation in the snap of his body.

“You’re lucky I stayed as long as I did. I swear, if not for this Nightmare guy, I would’ve left you to your gambling addiction.” Technoblade said, bluntness in his tone. 

“It’s not luck if I bet most of my money on his win. It was a calculated risk, and knowing his background, I was putting it all to good use. Nightmare has always been an interesting contender in the underground fighting scene, and I’m glad he’s sparked your interest too.” 

“Send my regards. He is a good fighter, but his talent is wasted in this underground pit.” Technoblade stood up with Wilbur, walking their way to the exit. A couple more people like them left after the whole ordeal, but some stayed behind to watch the entire thing play out. 

“He’s an exclusive man, Techno. Maybe next time you can tell that to Nightmare yourself.” Wilbur said, an excuse out of his lips before Technoblade could say anything else. It was a weak one, that’s for sure, but Techno felt too lazy to point it out. 

Nightmare and Technoblade were in two  _ very  _ different worlds. The chances of them bumping into each other for a casual chat, however brief or indirect, were closer to none. Nightmare was lost potential in terms of combat intellect, but he was an Eislinian that had nothing to do with him. 

It was simple inspiration. Nightmare showed him the combat of another empire, and that was all there was to it. Nothing more nothing less, a man who will ultimately fade away from his memory in a couple years or so, but Technoblade appreciated it for what it was to him for the meantime. 

“No thank you. There will be no next time. Though, our time together will be fondly remembered as my gravest mistake in life, ever. And that’s saying something.”

Wilbur simply smirked. “If my mere influence played such a big role in your life, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYHEYHEY SURPRISE UPDATE!!! IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TODAY SO U CANT GET MAD AT ME FOR PROCRASTINATING IN THIS STORY WHEN IVE ALSO GOTTEN OBSESSED W PLAYING GENSHIN IMPACT AND THAT TAKES TOO MUCH OF MY FREE TIME EYYYEYEY!! ye i went ham on that LMAO, AND THE FACT THAT I STILL HAVE TWO ESSAYS THAT I HAVENT EVEN STARTED DUE IN A FEW DAYS AGAAGAHADGDA i have my priorities straight guys :')
> 
> BOOM so now that we have the boring interaction stuff between wilbur and techno outta the way, NEXT UP IS W SCHLATT AND DRE !! 
> 
> also if there r any corrections/inconsistencies yall wanna point out, or any questions, feel free to comment and i'll get back to u!! IM TOO LAZY TO RECHECK RN LOL

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo,, thoughts?? i've been reading a couple of dreamnoblade fics, but i also like dnf, so how about both !!  
> i hope yall liked it :D


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